


all roads lead to this

by scisallison



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, i can't tag things on this site okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scisallison/pseuds/scisallison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Circumstance brings a young Allison, Erica, and Lydia together in the foster care system. Life runs a complicated course...and the rest, they say, is infamy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Allison**

* * *

**  
  
**

Allison Argent loves her father—she truly, honestly does. After all, they only have each other, ever since her mother died in the car accident.

The nightmares only got worse after the accident.

Most days are fine—Allison goes to school, comes home, and Chris usually has dinner ready within a few hours. If there’s enough time after she finishes her homework, they go out into the backyard and practice combat training. (All of her friends think it’s kind of weird, but Chris is an Army veteran, and Allison likes to think the bonding time brings them closer.)

But ‘most’ isn’t ‘all’, and the other days are some she wishes she could forget.

He’s restless and Allison can hear him from across the hall. She hauls herself out of bed and makes the short journey in a matter of seconds, walking up with a concerned frown as she watches him clutch at the bedsheets. She reaches out to shake him awake, and his hand closes painfully tight around her wrist. He throws her off of the mattress and Allison lands hard; the side of her face burns from the friction of the carpet, and her shoulder makes a popping sound that’s anything but good. She gets to her feet slowly, warily, cradling her injured arm as he approaches. He backs her into the wall with that cold, haunted look in his eyes that means her father just isn’t here anymore. He’s oceans and years away from this life, dropped straight in the middle of a battlefield. He never shared many of the details, but Allison knows enough.

He pins her by the throat. She whimpers.

“Dad! Daddy, no, please, it’s me—it’s _Allison_ , remember…”

And then it clicks. The recognition trickles back into his features—and the horror. Chris lowers her to the floor, wraps her in his arms and whispers apology after apology, and takes her to the bathroom to tend to her wounds.

 

She’s always tried not to let the pattern show—the long sleeves (fall and winter are always easy enough; the panic kicks in when the weather gets warmer), the skipped gym classes, the rigid posture, the way she never walks too quickly in the hallways. But her teachers aren’t oblivious. A hand settles itself on her shoulder to hold her back after homeroom. Allison winces.

Her jacket slides back just enough to catch a glimpse of the bruise blossoming against her pale skin.

The next two hours are spent in a closed office with the principal and the guidance counselor, and Allison exhausts her supply of hopeless excuses—“I can explain”, “It’s not what you think”, “He doesn’t mean to, I swear!” all come tumbling out of her mouth in an uncontrollable torrent. (The adults try to calm her down. She doesn’t feel any better.)

She goes home with her shoulders slumped and her gaze trained on the ground. Her father’s waiting for her at the bus stop. The lines of his face have deepened; he’s aged impossibly in a matter of hours and she knows that he knows. Allison clings to him, feeling the weight of his chin resting atop her head, and all the while he’s whispering “it’s going to be okay” into the depths of her hair like a mantra.

(She still doesn’t feel any better.)

The next day, people are already staring. People start talking. Soon, there’s a court hearing. The judge knows that Chris means well, that he tries his best and struggles on his own to make a living and raise his daughter, but still rules that his PTSD is too severe for him to be a fit parent to Allison. He gets sentenced to a rehabilitation clinic out of town. She’s placed into Child Protective Services and officially becomes a ward of the state of California.

Her case worker finally gets her assigned to the only group home in Beacon County, and Allison takes her time packing on the day of.

He kisses her goodbye. She presses her palm to the window as the car pulls out of the driveway.

 

 

**Erica**

* * *

**  
**

The routine is a simple one; one Erica’s perfected for about a month now.

She groans as her alarm starts blaring at 6:30 on the dot—it’s by far the loudest part of her day. She gets up and shuffles over to the bathroom, eyelids barely cracked and bleary with sleep. She flips on the light switch, flinching at the blinding fluorescents.

(She’d always told her dad to replace the bulbs with something dimmer. He waved her off and said he would. …That was two years ago.)

Wiping the back of her hand across her eyes, she soon replaces it in favor of a damp washcloth. The cold shock startles her awake, and she blinks a few times at her reflection. Reaching for the medicine cabinet, she rummages around for one of the pill bottles she keeps stacked on the top shelf. It’s suspiciously light, and Erica shakes it once before bringing it to eye level. Sure enough, she’s all out of Tegretol, and the spare she usually has is empty as well. Her parents forgot to refill her prescription before they left, and so it’s up to her to order and pick it up when she gets home from school. Luckily for her, she’s on a first-name basis with the staff at the local pharmacy, and they have no reservations about letting minors pick up their own meds (or, at least, not in her case). Sighing, she tosses one of the plastic bottles in the trash, and keeps the spare for a reference.

One quick shower later, and Erica’s in her room again, tugging on a sweatshirt over her bra and slipping into a pair of jeans. She runs a comb through the blonde mane that apparently passes for hair and winces as it snags in the tangled curls. After a solid ten minutes, it looks…presentable.

And as usual, ‘presentable’ is as good as she’ll ever get.

She fixes herself breakfast and locks the door behind her before she leaves, walking to the bus stop. The morning traffic is the first noise from someone other than herself she’s heard all day.

Her classes pass by in a blur. She’s stuck in World History, watching some tiresome slideshow flicker past as she tries an awkward combination of tuning out her teacher’s monotonous voice while still being attentive enough to take notes. It doesn’t work, and the sharpness of her name as it leaves his lips makes her jump. What’s he asking her? No, why the hell would she know that? Yes, she _was_ paying attention…sort of. But she holds her tongue; prays that if she shrinks into her seat, he’ll go back to the dumb presentation. Her efforts are in vain, and he continues to fire off questions one by one, and she has no answers. The entire classroom’s eyes are on her, the weight of their gazes piling on her shoulders, and she can’t shake them off.

But she is shaking—her muscles contract painfully and every nerve ending in her body feels like a firecracker with the fuse lit. The chair tips over and she slams onto the floor, but she can’t even catch a breath to vocalize her pain through all of the twitching. It hurts, everything hurts and what’s even worse is that people are crowding around and just _staring_ and all Erica wants to do is scream, _let it **stop**_ …

And then it does.

 

It’s so bright. Why is it so bright? She blinks rapidly to clear her vision, but the barrier is gone a moment later, anyway. It’s just a flashlight.

“Hey, you. It’s been a while since your last episode; I was hoping I wouldn’t see you until your annual.” Erica’s sight takes a second to bring everything into focus, but she recognizes her doctor’s voice and smiles weakly. The older woman smiles in return. “We were getting worried. You stopped seizing about twenty minutes ago, but you blacked out for the trip here. The administration tried to contact your parents, but no one could reach them—and they’re the only emergency contacts listed. Do you know where they are, Erica?”

She pushes herself upwards into a sitting position and her voice cracks from lack of use as she replies, “Out of state. Business trip.”

“Both of them? Erica, you’re _thirteen_.”

A simple shrug is the most she offers as an explanation. “I can cook. I can catch the bus. It happens, Sara.”

The doctor in question smirks at the usage of her first name—it’s Erica at her finest, even when she’s worn down. And there’s only so much formality someone can use when a precocious blonde makes frequent visits and has her fair share of surprisingly direct questions. But the amusement fades quickly. “…Often?”

“Often enough.” Erica rolls her eyes at the honesty of it.

She stares upwards at pursed lips and an arched eyebrow, wondering what could possibly come next. But she certainly isn’t expecting her to nudge her arm and say, “...I get off in an hour. You can stay with me for the night.”

It’s a comfortable arrangement for the both of them, and Erica appreciates it more than she can put into words, but it doesn’t last for long. A doctor who’s constantly on-call isn’t much better of a guardian than two absent parents, and Sara soon makes the wise decision and contacts the authorities.

The next few weeks are brutal, and filled with entirely too much complicated legal discussion for Erica’s liking.

But the smoke clears, the ruling is passed, and her parents don’t have custody of her anymore.

Erica walks into the group home with an adult at her side and her eyes on the ground, but it’s not out of sadness for the situation she’s found herself in. She feels no regret in leaving a house that never once felt like home.

 

 

**Lydia**

* * *

 

There’s a slow-building tension throughout the house, enough that the thirteen year-old seated at the piano can feel it creeping along her skin. Nonetheless, her fingers sail across the keys with elegant precision as she plays through one of her favorite pieces. Until the doorbell rings.

In a flash, her father’s steady hands are guiding her shoulders, pushing her down the main hallway, and there’s desperation leaking through his usually stable tone. “Lydia, _get in the closet_. Go!”

There’s a shriek as the door slams inward faster than her mother can open it, and heavy footsteps pounding against the marble floor just as she dives into the hall closet and shuts the door.

“Time’s up, Monahan.” There’s a twisted sort of satisfaction in the announcement—it’s cold, taunting, and makes Lydia want to disappear.

She flattens her back against the wall, knees pulled flush to her chest. She wants to block out what she knows is coming, let the darkness swallow her whole—the echoes that manage to slip through the crack of the doorway are as hollow as corpses.

Glass shatters—someone must have knocked over the vase in the living room. A dull thud against the wall. A groan. And then—

“Deal with her first. Then him. I want him to watch.”

 _No, no, no, no…_ The palms of Lydia’s hands slam against her ears, but the minor protection is no match for the gunshot that follows. It comes without warning, quick and deafening for a mere second, the sound of it masking the cry that’s torn from her lips.

It happens again.

Suddenly the wall gives way behind her, but is soon replaced by a firm support against her back, just as soon as a hand clamps itself over her barely parted mouth. “Don’t…make…a sound,” comes the urgent whisper in her ear, as the pressure increases against her cheekbones. Insistent, but careful enough not to bruise.

She knew that voice; gruff, male, and familiar, as well as the secure warmth that surrounds her as he crushes her against his chest. Aiden—her bodyguard, though he’d never felt the need to play anything but the ‘older brother’ role…until now. She stands on shaky legs, making her way down the hidden staircase to the cellar below.

 

It takes them a forty-five minute drive on the most roundabout route possible to get to LGA—Lydia doesn’t even recognize the car they’re in.

Halfway through the plane ride, Lydia finds herself leaning over to rest her head against Aiden’s chest, listening to the constant pulse beneath his skin. The position is more than uncomfortable, and the armrest digs painfully into her side, but she needs the contact. Immediately, his hand moves to the top of her head, gently stroking through long red tresses in a constant rhythm. “Where are we going?” she asks, though she’d already heard ‘Sacramento’ announced over the P.A. From New York to California—it hardly seemed real. Hours ago she had been settled into her daily routine, and now…

“Somewhere you’ll be safe, Lyds.” A simple response. The grim set of his lips is enough to tell Lydia that they had seen this coming for quite some time. Aiden, her parents…they’d had a plan—but the plan had always been meant for her. He lets out a soft sigh, before pressing a kiss to her forehead. Her questions abandoned, Lydia gives into her growing exhaustion and falls asleep to the tempo of his roaming fingers, with her tears staining the fabric of his shirt.

 

She wakes up in a taxi, parked outside of a large building. Rolling the window down, Lydia barely manages to catch the tail end of the conversation as Aiden hands off a file of documents to a woman, murmuring something about ‘already registered in the system’. She steps out, a cautious eye on the stranger. Aiden makes the appropriate introductions and pulls her aside, telling her everything she needs to know (and nothing she wants to hear, including the fact that he’s leaving—she shakes her head furiously and he holds her in his arms like he’ll never let go).

(But the seconds pass too quickly, and he does.)

The social worker leads her inside through a maze of hallways, a succession of curious glances, and up three flights of stairs before they finally reach an office. She takes a seat in front of the desk and the older woman hands her file to who Lydia assumes must be the director of the place. And Lydia senses it, too—there’s an air of seriousness surrounding her, showcasing more authority than any generic title. But instead of reading it, she slides the folder off to the side and looks directly at Lydia, a reassuring smile on her face.

“It’s okay. I’m Marin. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“I’m Lydia—” She cuts herself off, biting down on her lip as she mentally corrects herself and lifts her chin to determinedly lock her green eyes on dark brown. “…Lydia Martin.”


	2. Chapter 2

Barely two weeks in, and Erica’s nearly back into the same routine. Wake up, breakfast, chores…the usual. Except it’s a lot louder these days. And it’s a longer trip to the bathroom.

She’s used to getting up early, so she’s one of the first to claim it in the mornings. All the better for her, since there’s only two on the girls’ floor—and technically, since her room’s in the east hallway, she’s supposed to use the one on that side. Not to mention she’s heard that the girl who just got in is a complete primadonna and  _will_  use up all of the hot water if given the chance. And she’s sharing a room with Allison, who had already been settled in days before Erica’s own arrival…in the room right next door.

Yeah, Erica’s not going to give her the chance.

The hot water provides a welcome relief for her tense muscles—the mattress is decent enough, but it’s not the best. She guesses she’ll get used to the feel of it soon enough. Wrapping a towel around herself as she steps out of the shower, she wipes off some of the condensation in the mirror and stares at her reflection. Her mouth tugs down at the corners as she examines the red patch on her chin.

Well, that’s just  _great_. She’s breaking out again. God, she hates her meds.

She twists her hair into a wet braid and rolls her eyes in the direction of the glass before heading back to her room. That redhead is waiting outside, arms crossed and one eyebrow arched expectantly as she leans against the doorframe.

“Took you long enough,” Lydia says pointedly, and Erica knows she’s going to drive her up the wall by the time the week’s out.

***

Ms. Morrell—she says she’s fine with being called Marin, but only while they’re in the house—was considerate enough to give all of the new arrivals some time to transition before they jumped back into the school system, but their grace period has come to an end. It turns out that Erica, Allison, and Lydia are all the same age, so it’s easier to send them all on the same day, anyway. Especially since Marin’s the school guidance counselor.

(Okay, so Allison’s been fourteen for a while now, but she withdrew the year her mom died and has to make up for lost time. Erica’s still thirteen, but she has a late birthday. Lydia’s fourteenth is a few months past, stuck in the middle.)

They catch the bus, and sit as far away from each other as possible. Allison’s more of a victim of circumstance, but the distance between Lydia and Erica is entirely intentional.

And so begins their first day as freshmen at Beacon Hills High School.

***

Erica’s on her way to her last class, and of  _course_  she manages to make two wrong turns in five minutes. The hallway’s practically empty by now. She turns around a set of lockers, and is greeted by a flash of long brown curls. Allison, being towered over by some cocky upperclassman boy (which is a feat; Allison’s tall and probably hasn’t even stopped growing yet), who’s ducking his head to whisper in her ear. Erica doesn’t catch much of the conversation, and has barely ever heard Allison talk to begin with, but the girl’s looking decidedly uncomfortable as she subtly tries to make her escape.

He catches her by the wrist, and Allison freezes in place. (Seriously, she’s full-on brown-eyed doe in the headlights, and Erica catches herself staring. The way Allison cringes and backs into the lockers, it’s like she’s just waiting for something to happen…something worse.)

Finally, Erica takes a step forward, because this is just ridiculous. “Hey, asshole, just leave her al—”

But she doesn’t get to finish, because in a split second something snaps and those eyes shift from terrified to cold and methodical. Allison breaks free of the guy’s grasp like he was never holding her at all, and one smooth movement later he’s doubled over on the floor.

Her brow knits together and she blinks twice as he gets to his feet and limps away, then acknowledges the blonde with a tentative tilt of her head. “…Thanks, anyway.”

“Um, yeah.” Erica clears her throat and turns away just slightly. The attention’s been on her for too long, and she’s grown acutely aware of how homely she looks at the moment.

Allison shifts, the hesitant motion of a girl who maps out the course of her steps; second guessing, eternally weighing the consequences. Then— “I’m pretty sure we have French together. It’s down the hall.”

***

Erica has never been one for words. She’s far from a poet in any chosen stretch of her thirteen years—she speaks and the oxygen condenses in her mouth, pushes its way past her lips in an unflattering flood of syllables, leaving her stammering and insecure. She speaks and is never heard. She wants attention, without the judgment. To be thought of as a whole, instead of the unspoken scrutiny on her unfortunate skin and unruly hair and whether or not she’s going to have a relapse. She has wit to spare, but only in the confines of her own company, in voiceless opinions and subtle eyerolls. So when the French teacher writes a word on the chalkboard that she’s never even  _seen_  before and asks her to list the standard present tense verb conjugations, Erica shuts down, as she always does. She bites her lip to the point of nearly drawing blood and wills the stares away.

It’s Allison who cuts the moment short. She raises her hand, quickly and effortlessly providing the answers in the most flawless accent Erica’s ever heard. It’s better than the teacher’s.

***

They slowly fall into a routine in their after school hours—Erica utterly mangling French pronunciations with a pile of papers strewn on her mattress, Allison patiently correcting her with a steady voice, a gentle laugh, and the articulation of someone well beyond her years. The blonde gradually improves with Allison’s guidance, though she hates that she doesn’t have much to offer in return, at first.

(Erica is surprisingly good at algebra—she can pick out the patterns, solve the puzzles easily; after all, she has plenty of experience rationing out the food in the kitchen to make it last for the duration of her parents’ ventures out of town. But Allison’s not struggling in the subject either, so it’s a moot point.)

No, Erica’s not one for being vocal, but she can dissect a book like no other. She’s spent her fair share of time buried in them, and she’s quick to dive into the deeper conceptual meanings behind their assigned readings—a welcome counter to Allison’s straightforward and often verbatim approach. Managing deadlines, organizing notes, keeping them focused on the task at hand…that’s all Erica.

And she swears that if Lydia knocks on her door one more time complaining about Allison being back in their room before lights out, she’ll roll her eyes right out of her head. One day Erica plans on taking bets as to when the frustration-induced flush of the other girl’s cheeks will finally match the shade of her lipstick. Or her hair. Either one works.  


***

Another thing that never changes over the following weeks is Lydia’s unfailing insistence to wait outside of the bathroom until Erica forfeits the shower. Every. Single. Morning. Seriously, would it kill her to sleep in an extra fifteen minutes? Normal teenagers would be  _grateful_  to wake up a little later (and granted, none of them are the textbook definition of ‘normal’, but still).

It always triggers some mild sense of annoyance, but their brief exchanges lack their former vitriol as time passes. There are days when Erica will lean against the door, running the shower for a few minutes after she’s already done, timing her exit at the very brink of Lydia’s patience. She’ll open the door to meet Lydia’s scowl, hand half-poised in the air to knock, and wink as she brushes past with a smug, “All yours.”

The answering glare that scorches her back as she retreats down the hallway is always worth it. 

*** 

One day Erica steps into the bathroom and proceeds to take her shower with the suspicious lack of a familiar shadow blocking the sliver of light under the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots a note stuck to her section of the storage compartments lined up on the bathroom wall.

_She barely talked to anyone before you came around, you know. So…thanks. Thought this could help._

Lydia doesn’t even have to sign it for Erica to recognize who it’s from, but sure enough, the redhead’s delicate script runs along the bottom of the paper. Under the note is a bottle of concealer (that’s perfectly matched to Erica’s skin tone), and an assortment of acne scrubs, packaged so professionally that she doesn’t even want to guess at the price. Well, no one could ever say that Lydia Martin wasn’t thorough.

Erica smiles to herself.

***

Their study groups extend from two members to three, and the adjustment admittedly takes some getting used to. Lydia’s curt and occasionally patronizing demeanor is such a stark contrast to Allison’s.

(And perhaps too close to Erica’s for her own liking.)

Erica wrinkles her nose in distaste at the scent of acetone in the air whenever Lydia insists on priming her nails for the next morning. And the incessant tapping of those freshly-dried nails against Erica’s nightstand when Lydia inevitably finishes her homework first—because she  _always_ does—is irritating as all hell.

But they manage to pull some predictability out of their own dysfunction. More often than not, they forego the journey back to their respective rooms altogether, hauling bedsheets and pillows next door to whichever bedroom they choose to crash in for the night. If it's Erica's, two of them claim the mattress while the other curls up in a pile of blankets on the floor (generally, Lydia’s the odd girl out—she, of all people, tends to be the most restless). It’s more comfortable than it looks.

Sometimes the nights are quieter than usual; soft murmurs of past lives and thumbs running across old keepsakes as the stories behind them are slowly unraveled. Lydia, always so talkative during the daylight hours, never seems to share much once the conversation turns to more serious matters, but listens with rapt attention.  


***

And when Erica’s birthday finally rolls around as winter’s closing in on them, it’s an actual  _celebration_. There’s a cake, and an audience, and a warmth settling in her chest that hasn’t been present in years. Lydia’s in charge of the decorations, and they’re as amusingly pretentious as Erica expects. It takes a few lighthearted insults to get her to loosen up from her strictly outlined party plans.

As far as friends go, she figures she could have chosen worse.

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me on [tumblr](http://scisallison.tumblr.com).


End file.
